He lifts a hand to cup my pussy and shift me, starting to caress me. “That was the aim of all this,” he whispers, nuzzling my ear.
I turn around and his nose presses to mine, my breath on his lips as I speak. “I’m really wet,” I admit. “Let me get pretty. I want to look so pretty I give ‘your type of girl’ a whole new meaning.”
When I stand, he tugs me back down as if I’m being silly, chuckling, “Come here.”
“No, seriously!” I laugh, then I say, “I’ll be right back,” and head quickly to the bathroom to get a little pretty. I see my phone messages.
Wynn: Hey we’re worried, call!
Gina: Rachel where are you? You ok? We’re worried
I answer them both.
I am physically okay but so absolutely in trouble
I toss the phone aside, and when I come out, Saint is lying back in bed, arms crossed behind his head, the sheets up to his waist, and he’s naked already, his clothes tossed to the side. My stomach knots from the hunger, the fierce desire clawing inside me, begging for release. Begging me for him.
My hands shake from the heat already rushing through my veins as I slowly tug the strap of my bikini and start stripping for him. I prolong the moment, against every demanding throb of my body, every second that I’m not in that bed with him is torture, every pore in me trembling under the dark, tumultuous look in his eyes, eyes that make me feel owned, wanted, and absolutely wanton and sexy.
26
FRIENDS AND FANTASIES
Gina and Wynn are worried that I blew up at my mother’s house yesterday morning.
After Malcolm drives me home, I ask Gina to give me half an hour to shower and change. I hop into the shower, daydreaming a little bit as I rub my body and feel how tender I am between my legs. Gina is scowling and clearly concerned when I come out.
“What’s going on? Talk to me,” she goads as we head to meet Wynn that afternoon. “You were with Saint all this time?”
“Yes,” I admit.
“And? Did you break it off? Or did you call Helen? What’s going on? I’ve been deliberating and I don’t think dumping your career for a man is a good move. Especially a man with a reputation. When he breaks your heart, you can’t even say you didn’t see it coming, Rachel!”
I tune out a little bit as she keeps going because, at this point, my empty stomach is filling with bile over my own decision—the one I have to make soon.
When I don’t agree with or reject her suggestions, Gina switches gears and suddenly can’t stop talking about how great it is to be single. Does she want to make me feel better because obviously Saint and I are going nowhere? Or is she concerned and thinking I would actually dare go out with Saint publicly and expose myself to the same scrutiny he’s subjected to?
No. She’s in full protective mode, and she wants me to end it, and end it now.
“I plan to live my life eating cake without being judged, painting my nails in whimsical colors, spending my own money my way, and leaving with debt. That’s the way I want to go. It means I took risks,” Gina says.
“Huge risks, Gina,” Wynn says sarcastically. She seems to be arguing the opposite side today as we sit in our usual booth. “Painting your nails and eating cake and spending money—the real risk is getting out there even after asshole Paul broke up with you.
“For a while now the only touch you’ve gotten is from your manicurist. That’s how you and Rachel were both getting touched, just to get someone to touch you in any capacity.”
“For your information, Rachel and I have been boinking our brains out. See, Rachel hardly has any left. She’s in love with a guy who I bet slept with some waitress around here or something. And maybe even a few more. Maybe even one of us!”
“Gina!” I cry.
“Who are you boinking?” Wynn dares.
“My dildo!”
“Woo-hoo.”
She narrows her eyes. “He broke my heart, Wynn! You’re the one who always drops your boys. You both lose steam and you’re gone. I love with my whole heart! He took my heart, all his warm shirts I loved sleeping in, all my trust. Even my coffeemaker walked out that door with him.”
“Gina, Wynn, it’s okay,” I try to placate.
Gina stands. “I thought we didn’t judge each other. I’m going to get a massage—and continue living my ideal life whether you like it or not!”
“Wynn, way harsh,” I chide when Gina walks away.
“I don’t judge, Rachel! I was arguing my point that at least I put myself out there and you two don’t.”
“We all do. What’s wrong if sometimes it’s so scary we want to do it in private in case we fuck up? Sometimes we’re drawn out of our shells whether we want to be or not.”
“I’ve never known anything to draw you out of yours. You’ve got your ideas and your safe zone and that’s it.”
“I’m in love, Wynn.”
I sit here, and once the words are out, the feeling—inside me so long—suddenly has a name, and it’s real. And it hurts. All this talk about the guy’s shirts and coffeemakers and I realize I do sleep in his shirt, but I’d do anything to sleep in his arms more than a few times. To have more than one shirt to sleep in. I don’t share a coffeemaker but I’d do anything to wake up another morning with him and have coffee with him while his hair is rumpled.
“I’m in love with Saint,” I say softly.
Wynn is staring at me in complete worry and confusion, her blue eyes wide in shock. A lock of red hair had fallen over her eye a few minutes ago, but suddenly she has to reach out and push it back so she can stare straight at me.
“I’ve fallen completely in love. Spectacularly so. If you want a front seat for the debacle, I’m sure there’ll be blood.”
Wynn sighs, then grabs my hand. “There’s never a right time for you to fall. It’s why they call it falling. It’s an accident. In one second. Just pray that wherever you land, you’re not there alone.”
“Wynn, I didn’t even know I wanted it. That I wanted to be worshipped this way. Even with no makeup and completely bare. I’d never wanted someone to touch me every chance he got. I’d never wanted to make excuses to touch someone else just so I can feel his warmth and how solid he is and know I didn’t imagine him. My life has been inside this box and then he’s solid and there and makes me feel something that is endless . . . I thought I knew what I wanted. Then I met him, and I don’t know anything anymore.”
“You want something else and that’s fine,” Wynn says, like it’s as easy as changing nail color.
“It’s not fine. Do you realize who he is? I’m setting myself up! I want the impossible. Men like him don’t change.”
“I beg to differ! People are always changing, it’s the law of evolution; we change. For the better. To survive.”
“Who thinks it’s for the better?”
“He will. Because being with you means something, it means he gets to be a good guy. You can give him purpose. He can give you safety. A girl who challenges you and brings out the best in you, that’s what a smart man values . . . even if he doesn’t know it until he meets her. And Saint’s a smart one, Rachel. Do you think he doesn’t know what ninety-nine percent of the people surrounding him want from him? You’re a good girl, Rachel. You can’t cook to save a recipe, but any guy would be lucky to have you.” She pauses. “Does he know?”
I shake my head and softly say, “Not yet.” I’ve got a farmful of critters in my stomach just thinking of telling him, and the biggest of them is called fear. “Like you just said . . . I’m afraid to go out on a limb and then find myself just standing out there alone.”
“Is he seeing other people?” Wynn asks, her expression concerned.
I wait for the waitress to leave a basket of Italian focaccia with a little plate of olive oil on the side before I continue. “I never went in having any expectations of him being exclusive, but . . . I don’t think he is seeing anyone else. He still hangs out with floozies but . . . he and I are having a lot of sex. A lo
t of sex, Wynn.”
Her eyes brighten. “For a nonmonogamous animal like he is, this is huge! Sex with only you?”
I feel myself blush hotly; all the talk about sex only reminds me of the powerful high of having Saint inside me.
“Don’t be restrained by rules,” she then chides. “Just go with your emotions. All those great romances, they’re not planned, they just happen.”
“That’s the thing—no matter how crazy it sounds, I want to be swept away. I do. I want to believe it could happen to me for once.”
“So?” she dares. “You’re already headed that way. Wouldn’t you rather go with it than fight some war you might not even want to win?”
“It’s not that simple, Wynn.” I fall back in my chair with a weary sigh. “I don’t know how Helen will take it when I let her know I’m not doing this. Edge is on its last breath. Even if Saint could change and want something real with me, I’d be putting my own happiness before how many people’s jobs? It’s killing me.”
“Edge will die anyway.”
“No.” I instinctively deny it with a shake of my head. “This would have injected new life. . . .”
“And you, Rachel?” She looks at me as if to her, my well-being is worth so much more than the well-being of the dozens of people working at Edge. She looks at me as if one small card—me—trumps all the rest. “And my friend Rachel, what about her?”
27
ON THE EDGE
The answer to Wynn’s question eludes me . . . but I know by the next morning that there are some things we are capable of, and some we aren’t. There are speeds at which we cannot run. And situations we cannot ever solve. We have limits within ourselves, and I have finally recognized mine. I grew up loving stories, sometimes loving stories more than people. Loving people in the stories, or because of the stories.
But today I love a man more than I love the story—his story.
So I walk into Helen’s office certain that she’s going to fire me. Fire me for real this time. Not only that, but I can’t bear to look anyone in the eye today. Valentine at his desk, looking for the perfect stock images. Victoria isn’t at her desk today, and I’m almost relieved I don’t have her looking at me when I need to come to terms with the fact that I’ve failed. I want to fail.
Helen looks up from her desk, and her eyes are tired behind her glasses. Her hair is a bit messier than normal. I can see the stress all over her and I can feel it around us as I take a seat.
She doesn’t even greet me. I think she knows.
“This article on Malcolm,” I begin.
“Malcolm?” she repeats, her expression one of complete and utter bafflement. She pulls off her reading glasses and pinches the bridge of her nose, then exhales. “Rachel, I’ve been very patient with you. You asked me for a chance. . . .”
“He’s different than what we thought he’d be.”
“Is he? I don’t think so.” She levels me with a hard glare. “See, I think he’s exactly how we thought he was. And I think just like hundreds of women before you, you’ve fallen. You think that underneath all that rich bad boy there’s a good man and that he’ll change when given the chance to.”
“He doesn’t need to change. The media has used his image to their advantage but he’s not who we think he is, who anyone thinks he is.”
“Oh, and you know this because you’ve . . . what? Slept with him? Had a few cocktails with him? You’ve known him, what? A few weeks, Rachel? How is that enough to know a man?”
“You can know a man with one deed. Just one. It isn’t about time.”
“Ah, you’re so deep,” she says sarcastically, then sighs. “The answer is no. You owe me an exposé. Your work has suffered for weeks, I need the material, and I need it on my desk by tomorrow.”
“I can’t write it,” I admit. “I can’t even start. I physically get sick sitting at my computer now.”
“Just write it, Rachel. He’s not a one-woman man. He’s got too many opportunities to cheat and be bad, and he can get away with it. He can have a blonde bimbo on the side who doesn’t care if he cheats. Who encourages him to have other women.”
“He’s too smart. He may play with the bimbo but he won’t be happy with one. He needs someone real,” I whisper.
“What he needs is none of our concern—what you need is to do your job. That’s the end of it.”
I’m sitting here trembling. Quit. Quit. Just quit.
“Helen, I thought this exposé would give me a voice to talk about a subject people wanted to hear about, so that later I’d be heard when I talked about other things. This was also about my dad and telling myself we all have the same troubles and ups and downs in our lives, that no one has it better in all respects. I’ve felt underestimated and I wanted to prove I could do something more. I can, I’m sure of it but no, I won’t.
“I met a powerful man and I’ve learned that just because you can do something doesn’t mean it’s right. Saint could do a million things with his power. He doesn’t. He uses it to prod others to action, I’ve watched him do it. He’s not the villain here. He gives as good as he gets. He’s used in the same way he uses. That’s what I call a trade. He’s not all saint, but he’s not all sinner.”
“Good, very good, write all of that. I need it on my desk.”
“I quit,” I breathe.
Helen looks at me, sighing. “You can’t quit, Rachel.”
“I just did. Helen, I’m sorry.”
“I’m telling you, you can’t quit.”
“Why?”
“Because Victoria just did.”
“Helen, I’m sorry that—”
“You’ll be sorrier if you don’t go through with it now. Victoria quit. She’s gone to our competition. They’re printing a story about Saint’s girlfriend secretly working to expose him. They’re jumping in before us.”
“WHAT?” I’m frozen.
“So you see, if you quit now, every one of your colleagues will soon be out of a job. Edge will get the last blow needed to finish it once and for all. Do you want to live with this, Rachel? At twenty-three, do you want to live with this on your shoulders? I’ve asked one special thing of you. One. To do your job.”
“Helen,” I plead.
“If you ever thought you could back out and it would all be forgotten . . . it won’t. Your boyfriend will know what you’ve been up to by next week. If you thought you could salvage your own image in his eyes by sacrificing Edge . . .” She sighs and turns away. “You thought wrong. Victoria will run with whatever it is she accessed through our systems—surveillance caught her photocopying things from your desk, Rachel. You wanted a voice? You have one. I need it in my inbox by Monday to try to match their print schedule. If we want to try to salvage the magazine, we need this piece—and we need it now.”
All I hear, as I leave Edge, as I gather my notes that Victoria may have photocopied and my bag, shut down my computer, and as I take the elevator downstairs, all I hear is my own voice, telling Malcolm that it wasn’t Interface that I was researching.
It was him.
I find myself in the streets. Walking without direction. How long have I been staring at the word Sin in my contacts? I don’t know. The wind bites into my cheeks. My fingertips are cold around my phone. I’m walking . . . but I’m heading nowhere.
I stare at Sin’s name and realize it’s the last contact I dialed.
It’s barely afternoon—he has a thousand things to do at M4 and even has to fly to New York City, but I press “dial” and lift the receiver to my ear. I don’t even know what I’m going to say. Only that I need to hear his voice right now.
He picks up with his lips sounding close to the receiver, as if he’s with people. “Hey.”
God help me, his voice will never stop doing things to me.
My eyes drift shut as a series of sensations flow through me to the tips of my feet. He is such an experience. Funny that he’s known to be straightforward, a man of few words.
T
his seems to fascinate the world, and in contrast, the world speaks about him almost too much.
And now, Victoria is going to speak about us.
“Hey,” I hastily whisper, “I know you’re busy. I just wanted to hear your voice.” I stop walking, lean on a lamppost as I feel myself blush beet red, and stare at my feet and the cracks on the sidewalk. “What time do you fly out?”
“Soon as I finish here, two hours at most.”
He waits for a heartbeat, as though waiting for me to explain why I’m calling.
“Something up at work?” he asks.
“Only me, wanting to call you. I’m making it a habit, aren’t I?”
“I’m not complaining,” he husks out in a murmur. “But I’ve got some people waiting.”
“Of course. Go get the world. Better yet, go get the moon!” No time to have this talk now, Rachel. Just say goodbye, say goodbye and ask to see him soon. “Let me know when you get back? I was hoping we could talk.”
“Sure.”
“’Bye, Sin,” I whisper.
“’Bye.”
After a full minute of regrouping, I look around, and though I know perfectly where I am, I’m lost.
I’m lost, and I can’t find my way home.
I’m lying in bed, sleepless, when my cell phone buzzes on my nightstand and an unidentified number appears. I see it’s almost midnight, and I almost don’t answer, but I do—and that’s when I hear it.
Saint’s voice, kind of smoky, thick and low, through the background of jet engines. “What . . .” I grumble and shake myself awake. “I thought you were flying?”
There’s pleasure in the low whisper. “I am.”
“Of course,” I groan. “Your plane has a phone. What else? Naked flight attendants?”
“I assure you they’re perfectly dressed.”
“Oh, but I bet you’re not,” I tease.
Surrounded by only dark in my bedroom, his voice is . . . everything.
His voice, his soft laugh.
It gives me such pleasure I can’t stop smiling. “I’m glad I amuse you,” I say softly.